


(w)rapt

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU of MAG 172: Strung Out, Anal Sex, Begging, Bondage, Brainwashing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Eggpreg, Forced Orgasm, Gangbang, Inflation, Mind Control, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Other, Overstimulation, Oviposition, Reasonably accurate spider anatomy, Spitroasting, Xenophilia, general aphobia, interalized aphobia, this does not have a happy ending, this is very very noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: For the Rusty_Kink kink meme, an AU for MAG 172: Strung Out.There are no hooks, not for Jon.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/The Web
Comments: 3
Kudos: 143





	(w)rapt

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on rusty_kink. Anon's request: _I'll admit, I was a little disappointed that Jon's run-in with the Web post-apocalypse wasn't with Mr. Spider. That hasn't stopped me from imagining an alternate episode where Martin wanders off and Jon gets wound up in webs and then filled with eggs._

Fill: Mr. Spider but make it sexy (Jon/Web, noncon, bondage, oviposition)  
CW: Aphobia, mostly internal

Jon doesn't notice until it's too late. He's too wrapped up in the puppet show, and it is a _show,_ tuned as much for the Beholding's benefit as the Web's. Beautifully crafted to exactly sate the Archive's appetite while stoking his worst personal fears. But the show is also a warning, a signal, a metaphor: the delicious horror Jon drinks down is ultimately no different than the tiny spiders Francis pours into their own vulnerable throat.

There are no hooks, not for Jon. There's not really a need for them when he's standing rapt _(wrapped)_ in the aisles of this strange theater. The threads that bind him are soft and dry and he does not know they're present until they start to move his hands.

Shrug off his coat. Unfasten his belt. Push his trousers down into a clumsy pool around his ankles.

He's as aware of what his body is doing as he is of anything else outside the nightmare. The narration spills out of him, fills his conscious mind, and everything outside that is a dim shadow, easy to ignore. Martin had to slap him, back in the Desolation flat, but Martin is not here now, and that would bother Jon if he were aware enough to even notice it. The cool air of the theatre on his thighs, on his chest as he unbuttoned his shirt - this would bother him if it were capable of breaking through the torrent of someone else's suffering.

Kick off shoes, that almost does it -- he stumbles and wobbles trying to free his feet from the combination of trousers, socks and trainers -- it's a sufficiently physical moment that snags his attention, just a little. Enough to confuse him, but not enough to fully break his attention away from Act 48,068.

Not until his underwear is sliding down his legs.

Not until he's _pulled._

There's a sickening swoop as he rises in the air, a sudden jerk that roots him back in his body. All at once he's agonizingly aware: not just of his nudity, but the silken webs around his wrists and ankles, chest and thighs. How long had they been there? How long had he been there? Where was Martin--?

Jon finds himself hoisted to just below the level of the stage lights. To any other monster they would be blinding, but Jon cannot be blinded. Nothing can hide the net of thick webs that close beneath him, strong enough to take his weight but woven loosely enough to pose the threat of a long, brutal fall if he leaves their tenuous safety. Not that Jon can leave, of course. The same strands that hauled him up with such inexorable power hold his hands behind his back now almost delicately; he wants to kick and thrash, but instead he kneels unsteadily where he's put, frozen in place.

He can scream, though. He thinks, perhaps, that only makes it worse.

"Martin! _Martin!"_ It's a foolish hope -- how would he even get up here? What could he do, when Jon's own body was rebelling against him? -- but it's the only hope he has, and Jon screams himself hoarse in the vain hope of hearing some distant reply. He could break his vows and try to Know--

But just when the thought crosses his mind, he feels a subtle vibration in the webs around him. And now it is far too late for hope, or help.

The spiders are in all shapes and sizes, irrespective of species: here's a silvery orb weaver the size of his hand, there's a brown widow the size of a dog. They traverse the threads to gather around him, above and below and on all sides, and Jon is nauseatingly confident that they're not going to eat him simply because that would be too quick.

The larger specimens hang back, for now. The ones that crawl forward are normally sized, or at least he thinks so, but that's small comfort as they skitter up his body, ascending from thighs to belly to chest to neck --

There's one last thing he can try. He has targets, now, not just the silken strands but the things that pull them. He opens his mouth for the incantation that's getting familiar, _Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze--_

But impossibly quick, there are legs skittering on his face, and a sharp stab of pain on his tongue. That's all it takes; he flinches away, tasting blood, but in seconds his whole mouth feels numb and sluggish. He tries again to speak, but can only produce wordless moans, long vowels in search of a consonant.

_**Now, now,**_ something whispers in his ear, or perhaps in his mind. _**Be a good boy for us, Archive. No playing rough with the little ones.**_

Jon groans, and his eyes fall shut. Not that that means anything, now.

The spiders roam his body freely, and some are adding their own silk to that first set of threads. Bands that hold his legs bent, thigh to calf; a sheath that binds his arms wrist to elbow. It tightens, and Jon's shoulders are forced back, spine arched uncomfortably. There's another team of them working across his groin, between his thighs, and at first Jon's not sure what they're doing except threatening the most sensitive parts of him.

Then a loop of web pulls snug around his cock and balls, and Jon shrieks. It's a compound violation, to be touched so intimately by something so vile, when he can hardly stand to be touched there at all — 

_**You always wanted to, though, didn't you?**_ that same low whisper says. _**Wanted to be normal instead of a twitchy, touchy freak.**_

Jon shakes his head furiously because he can't say _no._ Not that it matters, of course. He can feel heat building in his belly, feel his cock hardening despite and because of the tiny legs hurrying up and down it. Something bites his chest -- no, his nipple, directly in the center of it, but instead of spreading numbness there's only a strange, hot ache. First one side, then the other.

By the time the little ones leave him, Jon is immobilized twice over. His legs are spread obscenely, showing off the erection that curves toward his belly, and his back is arched in a way that makes it obvious how swollen his nipples are. His mouth is also a little swollen, and he is aware that he is drooling, but it's still too numb to do anything about. 

The voice in his head coos, _**What a pretty picture you make, Archive. Now, be a good boy and we'll make you feel so lovely.**_

As it speaks, the larger spiders close in.

They have the strength to pick Jon up, turn him over, inspect him like artwork with their multitude of eyes. One hairy paw brushes against the length of Jon's erection, and he moans, as much from the unwanted pleasure zinging up his spine as from the horror of its source. That, unfortunately, only encourages them. Long segmented legs stroke his body, hunting for reactions that he's helpless to hide. They find his cock first, and then his chest: every scrape across his nipples sends foreign pleasure knifing through him. He doesn't want this, has never wanted anything like this, but the silken threads apparently have the power to rewire his libido as much as they'd renovated his will.

He doesn't want this, but he can't seem to stop whimpering as the dry exoskeletons of the spiders catch on his most sensitive places and set them aflame.

One spider moves between his splayed thighs and raised its furry pedipalps away from its mandibles. For a dizzying moment, Jon wonders if it's going to eat him after all -- but no, that sort of violence would actually be an improvement over this intimate torture. It fondles his cock with its pedipalps, and something warm and slick oozes out of the tips, mingling Jon's own pre-come. It eases the motions of the spider, lets it stroke faster, and Jon hates it, and Jon would be thrusting up into the friction if he could move.

(The whisper in his mind again, but this time it's Martin's voice, from so long ago: _**Did you know most spiders mate with their mouth parts?**_ )

The other spiders seem to work out the same trick right away: they extend their palps and rub their slick into his skin, over his chest, into his slack and unresisting mouth. It tastes salty and acrid, and he wants to spit it out, but the only movement available to him is to swallow it. At least the palps in his mouth somewhat muffle the whorish moaning he can't contain, as the friction on his cock intensifies to an unbearable, inevitable crescendo.

They don't stop when he orgasms, of course. But something whispers in his head, _**Good boy.**_

As his cock goes soft, the spider between his legs shifts its attentions. It prods and rolls his balls, then leaves a sticky trail on the tender skin behind them. Whatever slick substance it's spreading drips down Jon's crack, and then two clawed paws are pulling his cheeks apart to let the palps explore his hole.

_No, no, no,_ Jon thinks, deliriously, praying to the god that rules this place as he feels tentative pressure and the unpredictable prickle of stiff hair. Then a tiny, stabbing prick, not unlike the spider bites on his chest earlier (minutes ago? Hours?). A similar tingling ache seeps into him: his flesh, at least, wants to be touched, and he knows it will feel incredible, even if the size of the palps pushing at him feels like it will tear him apart.

The spiders are patient, though. When his cock begins to twitch and fill again, another spider takes over stroking it, in a dizzy counterpoint to the one trying so methodically to shove a palp into his arse. Jon isn't sure which sensation is worse, the brilliant slide of exoskeleton against his erection or the slow, inevitable stretch as the bulbous organ at the end of the palp slowly enters his body. One of the spiders on the other end gets the idea to try the same thing with Jon's mouth, pushing its palps to the soft flesh at the back of his throat, and then past it. Tears stream from his eyes, but along with everything else, Jon can no longer gag.

He can clench down, though, as the other spider seats its palp entirely within him. It feels as wonderful and awful as he knew it would, and then it begins to thrust gently, and that's somehow _better._ The palp withdraws from his mouth to let him cry out, over and over, as the one in his arse glides against his prostate. It's too much sensation, inside and outside, cock and mouth and hole and nipples, but not so overwhelming that he can ever stop knowing what's exactly is inflicting it. Their hairy, clicking bodies jostle around him, jockeying for more skin to stroke, more holes to invade, and Jon can only take it, and take it all in.

Another orgasm comes over him, different to the first one, almost a full-body spasm. The spider fucking him doesn't stop. The pleasure quickly sours, too much for his over-stimulated nerves to bear, but the spiders don't stop. _Please stop,_ Jon wants to beg, and for a moment he finds his mouth almost cooperating with him: "Ple. Plzzz."

The spider nearest his head rears up, showing its fangs. Thick venom drips onto Jon's face, into his mouth, and it's not the kind that numbs. There's immediately another palp shoved against his lips, rubbing it in, pushing heat into him.

Jon's mouth opens, and he's not sure if that was his choice or not.

One palp in his mouth, stretching his lips and rubbing against the back of his throat, which are rapidly growing unbearably sensitive under the assault. One in his arse, stretching him even more, pushing deeper with every thrust and filling him with its slippery secretions. They're not synchronized, the waves of sensation, and he can't brace himself again either pleasure or pain. He can only take them both, take what is given to him, and when he feels something like another orgasm coming on it's almost a relief.

So of course, that's when they stop.

Jon wails as both palps are withdrawn, painfully fast. His cock is hard again, the sort of recovery time he thought he'd left behind in adolescence, and slick is oozing from his stretched-out hole. He's left hovering on the edge of release, and worse, he _wants_ it: any touch, any friction, even from the things that are once against lifting him and turning him about.

He ends up on his front, arse in the air, face aimed into the dark voice below. Wasn't there a theatre there, before? Is Martin down there now, wondering where Jon's gone?

The large spiders are skittering away. Something else is coming along the webs. Something even worse

There is no comfort to be had from shutting his eyes, but Jon shuts them anyway. The new spider is surprisingly deft for its massive size: the strands of web supporting his weight barely vibrate as it approaches. It explores his body with its pedipalps, again, but something is different about them. The bulbous swelling at the tip isn't present, and it produces no slick of its own, just spreads around what the other spiders have left dripping from him. It presses its palp into his mouth every so briefly, pulling a shameful noise from deep in his chest at even that light stimulation. But the appendage is as thick around as his arm, and Jon can't imagine having that pushed inside him, not if he's meant to survive it.

Legs like young trees brace over his head. The spider is settling above him, bringing its abdomen, not its mouth, flush to his upraised arse.

Then: nothing.

Jon swallows a few times, though the sensation makes him shiver. He thinks he can speak again. "The fuck are you waiting for," he manages, though it comes out slurred.

_**Good boys say please, Archive. Don't you want to be a good boy?** _

Of course. Christ.

"Please," he whispers into the air.

The spider shifts restlessly above him.

He tries again. "Please."

It rubs its bloated abdomen against him, briefly, but the contact is fleeting

Jon bites his lip, briefly, and the pleasure-pain of it lasers through him but it isn't enough, and he is far beyond shame or dignity now. "Please fuck me," he says. "I need it. I need you to -- _ah!"_

Without changing positions, the spider twitches, and something plunges into his prepared hole. Not a jointed, hairy pedipalp; a smooth shaft of some kind, all of a piece, with a tapered tip.

Of course, he realizes, screaming around intrusion. This one is a female.

She fucks the ovipositor deep into him, and that's all it takes for Jon to come this time, the thick, unyielding organ splitting him open in one movement. As the aftershocks subside, she also goes still, and if he had any capacity left for hope he might wonder if that was all this was going to be. Then he feels the shaft begin to swell against his cheeks. The far end is dilating, growing larger, and Jon thinks he can't possibly stretch that far -- surely it's going to tear him open, leave him a bloody husk?

It doesn't, though. The widest point of the stretch pops past his rim, and presses into his prostate, sending more shuddering waves of pleasure up his spine. Then it moves further in, past the point where he has nerve endings to feel it. He Knows where it is, though, and where it settles as it clears the end of the ovipositor. A gelatinous mass in his guts, left there to incubate by its doting Mother.

The next egg pushes against his hole, and Jon starts crying.

They come faster after the first, and the stretch eases, but the constant battering of his prostate does not. He can feel them building up in his belly, a foreign weight that pulls the skin uncomfortably taut. The spider occasionally strokes him as she pumps egg after egg into his body, but he is too overwhelmed to parse the sensation. He thinks he comes again. Several times, perhaps, or perhaps one endless plateau of jangling nerves and shaking limbs and broken, shuddering moans.

He comes on her shaft as the eggs bloat his abdomen, and at some point she has to lift his upper body so his stomach has room to grow. One massive leg pets the bulge, and perhaps Jon only images her whispering to him: **_Such a good boy, taking my gifts so well. My beautiful boy. My Archive._**

When the last egg is lodged, it takes several minutes for Jon to realize that the process is done. She pulls the ovipositor out, slowly, letting the eggs shift and slide into the space it occupied. There's no way his ruined hole can hold such a load into place, and he has a brief vision of all of them flooding out the way they'd just come in another agonizing, orgasmic tidal wave. But no, she swiftly replaces the organ with something else--a knot of sticky silk that plugs him up completely.

Then she props him upright again, on his knees, and vanishes into the darkness.

Jon doesn't have the luxury of unconsciousness anymore. He does not black out, and he does not forget. As he catches his breath, he is painfully aware that he's still tied into the same pose, though now his egg-stuffed belly hangs over his splayed thighs. The obscene curve of it is enhanced by the forced arch in his back, and the remaining slick makes the taut skin glisten. Are the eggs moving inside him, or is that his own body's confused reaction to its new, unnatural purpose? He imagines it briefly, organs no longer needed for eating and digestion subtly morphing to better protect their new occupants. If this is his ultimate fate, why shouldn't he be remade, inside and out, to suit it? If Francis is any indication, Jon would be enduring this for a long, long time — so why not make it easier on himself, just a bit?

"Jon?"

Martin's voice. A vibration on the net beneath him. Jon looks up, and there is Martin, picking his way across the spider's web on shaking legs. Behind him, Annabelle Cane beams. "Doesn't he look lovely?" she asks, and her voice is strangely familiar. "All wrapped up like a present."

Jon can't speak; his throat is simultaneously too raw and too sensitive, so all that comes out is a soft whine. Martin reaches him and cups his face in both hands. "Jon, look at me. Are you -- of course you're not fucking okay. Christ. What did she do you -- ?"

Martin's stroking his face and it's strange, too much friction or not enough -- Jon turns his head slightly and captures one of Martin's blunt fingers in his mouth, and. _oh._ It still feels all too good, a slick slide against lips and tongue, still sending sparks across his over-wrought nerves. Like the first hot drag of a cigarette. Like the first soupcon of someone else's fear. 

Why not just get used to it?

Martin jerks his hand back, eyes wide. For a second, a thin strand of saliva trails between his fingertip and Jon's lower lip, glittering in the stage lights. "What did you do to him?" Martin demands, and his voice is cold and hard.

"What he was destined for." Annabelle reaches out towards Jon, and for a moment he imagines sucking her fingers, swallowing around them until he came. Not even because he wants to do it but because that's now a thing he does.

Martin catches her wrist in mid-air, stopping her. 

Annabelle's voice is much less cheerful now. "Jonah only thinks the Archive was his idea. The Mother created him, and the Mother has a plan. She's going to destroy Magnus and his stupid tower, and restore equilibrium to this brave new world. Or rather," and she looks indulgently down at Jon, "her daughters will, after the Archive is done incubating them."

Martin lets her go. "So why even bother with me? Or did you just need me out of the way so you could - could take him?"

"The Archive needs support until the eggs are ready," Annabelle says, "and the babies will need a teacher when they hatch. And you're such a devoted caretaker, aren't you?" She pauses. "If you're not interested, I'm sure the Mother has a few eggs left for you as well."

"Fine," Martin grinds out, after a long pause.

When Annabelle is gone, Martin kneels by Jon and tries to unbind him, picking as the silk that sheaths his arms and legs. Eventually, Jon finds the strength to say, "It won't work."

Martin freezes. "How do you know?"

"The Mother won't let me hurt them," Jon explains. "Or myself. So you might as well leave it."

The sound Martin makes is halfway between a sigh and a sob. "Does it hurt?" he asks, and very gingerly touches Jon's swollen belly.

"I wish it did," Jon sighs. He leans forward as best he can to press the taut, sensitive skin into Martin's touch, because it feels good, because it's part of his purpose. "I really wish it did."


End file.
